eyeing the birch trees
as it swims down the canal —
a beaver scouting

deep in the pocket
of my mothballed winter coat —
last year's present list

withered reeds —
ducks and geese winding through
speaking of summer

yesterday's wind
has fully stripped the trees —
nothing to stop the sun

our inside cricket
somehow still startles us 
with a jump

great blue heron
standing at the river's edge
water rushing by

stop and start traffic —
the way we tried to build
rock dams in the creek

little kitten paws
don't belong on the table —
or so we tell him

(Barbara Chepaitis' 5 month-old Abyssian Merlin jumped up on the table pretty much continuously while we ate dinner.)

fallen leaves folding
giving up on dreams of sun
ready to be earth

(The last message before the rise of Meeting at Albany Friends, offered by an older woman who uses a wheelchair, included an element of show and tell… an older woman passes a desiccated and falling apart leaf around, recommending that everyone smell it to remember what fall smells like, and to notice that it now tends to fold open, like the pages of a book spine broken through reading.)

a hawk's white breast
as it sits facing the sun
neither of us looks away

Thursday mornings
I staff the reference desk —
more retirement dreams

in between protests
I drive the banned bookmobile —
retirement dreams

burying garlic
under a layer of earth —
we all need tucking in

tucked under our roof
we listen for the difference
between sleet and hail

sale of the season —
squirrels excitedly shoving
acorns in every hole

last train of the night —
somewhere an owl silently 
shifts from foot to foot

dark before dinner —
I pull out stew recipes
to hold onto warmth

my wife and I
take turns waking each other
to stop the snoring

waiting for cold nights —
garlic cloves making plans
for spring

golden skirts
encircling every gingko —
cold weather drop

strangers' silhouettes
masquerading for a moment
as my missing friend

ragweed sniffles
finally quieted
by this first hard frost

Senate Dems cave —
even the Quakers wish
we had some fighters

acorns pelting down 
keeping some kind of time —
early November

first hard frost —
the zinnias let go of
sun worshipping at last

stones and shadows
here where my friend is laid down
days of weight and darkness

dim and bright again
the clouds shaping sunlight
to uneven breaths

spiraling climber —
we wait for the woodpecker
to come back around

pad Thai with 
sticky mango rice after —
the click of chopsticks

old concert ticket
standing in as a bookmark —
art pulling me through

he has vacuumed
and made space in closets —
the work of young love

a princess all day —
by the time she's trick or treating
Emily's herself

(One of our little neighbor children had insisted on wearing her princess costume from the moment she woke up on Hallowe'en. By the time she got to our house, her mother explained that she was now dressed "as Emily." )

we drive towards blue sky
but the storm doubles back —
no escaping now

a fallen ash tree  —
I watch runners deciding
over or under

never noticing
how often I look for you
until you're not there

long morning run
following my own trail of
nearly frozen breath

waiting to see
how you will appear again
now that you are gone

sleepy six point buck 
stumbling to his feet
in our front garden

we brought our raincoats
so we wouldn't need them
the last time we walked

(for Alison)

autumn sparrows
bravely coming close enough
to be told apart

the goal
is to feel
without coming apart

ht Kelly Hayes

https://organizingmythoughts.org/the-emergency-is-the-atmosphere/

awake at 2:10
my internal alarm
with no snooze setting

acorns underfoot —
every crunch another 
oak-tree-shaped hole

screech owl laughing —
we throw open our windows
chasing the sound

streets lined on both sides
with protesters and their signs —
today's traffic jam

all over town
sign-makers looking for
their thick black markers

spooky season —
my four year-old friend
wants a song with bones

fast-running fox —
the line of its trailing tail
an after-image

October canal —
capturing and reflecting
the leaves' brilliant hues

fallen leaves gone black
wet and slippery decay —
bringing in the news

tight little bundles —
the last zinnia buds
of the season

nor'easter coming —
the air holds all the rain
it possibly can

acorns underfoot
milkweed fluff in the air —
time to test the heat

the world was better
(I want to say to strangers)
when he was in it

underneath the trees
beneath the grass
voles digging tunnels

fewer flowers now
with hardly any bees
and our friend gone, too

so many photos
of the place the monarch
had just flown away from

we take turns
going out to moongaze
in our stocking feet

fall planting season —
digging one hole
after another

gibbous half moon —
my mother prepares to say
the thing she always says

as close to the fox
as I am to you now
and still not a sound

the bald eagle's
rookie year —
no white head yet!

overgrown path —
I try to think like
last season's deer

calico asters —
bees affirm that even these
are worth a visit

cooler nights at last —
the crickets will be leaving
more time between songs

five kinds of asters
claiming more of the front yard
with each passing day

we try to tell it
how to exit the garage —
curious cricket

sighing together —
old dogs at the end
of a long day

for the first time
I think about planting
my own garlic

drunk on fermented fruit
the swooping bats at dusk
a bit wobbly

another safe bet —
listening for goldfinches
as the garden fades

autumn equinox —
the wasps in the corner
start over again

hydrangeas in fall —
finally showing signs
of slowing down

a hopping sparrow
ahead of me on the path
rediscovers flight

ripe winter berries
against an aster backdrop —
brighter every day

deep in my to-do list
I leave a stove burner on —
the maple turns red

allergy season —
I give up and carry
the tissue box with me

near miss —
I peel a dark red sock
from the washer's drum

late season planting —
we fill the holes with water
to soften the shock

back where we began
Sourland Mountain riders 
trade Poor Farm Hill yarns

we cut back
the rattlesnake master
to give the asters room

still there the next day —
a bee hanging upside down 
from the goldenrod

morning on the lake —
every day I see something
I want to tell my father

morning magpie eye —
a bit of good news glints up
from page twenty-four

my sister came out!
(the newest big brother
makes an announcement)

today's birdsong
makes yesterday's song
not yet the last one

diving cormorant
showing everyone on the lake
how to welcome rain

a weary doe  —
two fawns in constant orbit
around her stillness

empty spiderweb
suddenly overflowing
with morning sunlight

shrieks and squeals —
neighborhood children
stay out late again

the heron's stillness
a bid to be forgotten —
danger never rests

we permit ourselves
the gift of imagining
a world after him

tree swallows swooping
out and back over the field
just because they can

some day he'll be gone —
what can we work to build now
that should exist then?

belted kingfisher
waiting patiently beside the lake
until we find him

slanted evening sun
picking up the purple seeds
at the tops of sawgrass

coastal flooding —
hurricane season 
reminds us who's boss

 yellow flicker —
the day squeaks open
on a rusty hinge

orange skimmers on
the zinnias, then the yarrow —
so many choices!

birdbath bluejay —
the flashy red cardinal 
waits his turn

he sends us selfies
so we can appreciate
his first dress shirts

tiny bits of down
left behind by the birds
after their bath

so far up the oak
we have to look straight up —
yellow-bellied sapsucker

anniversary —
fourteen years of saving
room for dessert

stealthy hermit thrush
pulled by curiosity
comes to check us out

city street trees — 
leaves hanging low
in the summer heat

brush trucks
scooping up all our trimmings —
metallic soundscape

we cut back bamboo
to give the ironwood room —
sky is to be shared

Venus the brighter
with Jupiter edging in —
our pre-dawn light show

children moving out —
my friend and I trade stories
of stifled advice

remembering
that not looking sometimes works —
a few more fireflies

trying to picture
the world as it could be 
starting from this place

scared day laborers
translating for each other
at the council hearing

four am brain whirl —
lining up letters for my
next protest sign

stilt grass erasing
the footpath along the lake —
we walk the memory

getting older
yet every full moon
remains the same

chickadees in front
cheerfully sharing the news
of the safer spots

smoke from faraway
fires we can't even see —
the birds fly lower

peach season —
we dream of the feeling 
of juice dripping down

a chipmunk shrieks out
a warning as we walk past —
we scary monsters

watching the stream
of wasn't meant to be
flow on by

sweet corn season —
my mother asking us to
husk it on the stoop

the lightest rain
resurrects a childhood dream —
dodging the drops

goldfinches busy
seeking seeds and building nests —
first bird of the day

fledgling catbirds
teaching by example —
ask for what you want

willing food
to fall from the skies
over Gaza

waxing crescent moon —
fireflies swim through the dark
seeking each other

I practice resisting
the urge to give advice
as he drives away

a layer of mist
hovers just above the grass —
the day still wrapped

warm nights following
even warmer days —
leave the fans running

we find out later
that ICE has come and gone
a few blocks from here

signaling
the second half of summer —
cicada choir

I apologize
one more time for how slowly
understanding dawned

cooler mornings —
we lean into skipping
the ice in our drinks

cicadas joining
the sunset cricket chorus —
summer thickens

closing the curtains
we spy a few more fireflies 
still sending signals

orange zest and
freshly ground cardamom —
she makes her own cake

reading before bed —
the mosquito near my ear
has other ideas

tucking protest signs
in the back seat of my car —
staying ready

tiny hummingbird
fiercely shimmering
at the edge of sight

just shy of fifty.
a mighty tree has fallen,
roots ripped from the earth.

at the rise of Meeting
we discuss the messages
we most want to be heard

don't drive through water —
I hear my grandfather's voice
and go the long way

short summer nights —
the air moves aside briefly
to let us slip through

lining up our walk
so we can keep the Buck Moon
in glorious view

darkening skies —
we feel the thunder
somewhere inside

no justice, no peace —
new protestors chanting
the old chants

zinnia buds
clenched a little less tightly
first thing this morning

this, our broken world —
from the forest, a wood thrush
threads a mending song

we swim long laps
leading and drafting
by turns

lizards running through
the elementary school garden 
now that it's summer

a mockingbird pair
in near-constant flight 
feeding their nestlings

I unstick myself
from the living room couch
to look for the half moon

the mockingbird
stops on a low branch, thinking
of taking a break

last day of Pride month —
I explain to a young person
how things used to be

low temps not that low —
we try to pull some cool air
from a moonless night

warm June evening —
our guests from the West Coast
see their first fireflies

long days of waiting —
rights withering and dying
like vines in a drought

chimney swifts
swooping low as dusk comes on —
hard to look away

we spend most of June
keeping the gardens watered —
lightning bugs return

muggy heat wave —
even the squirrels 
seem bogged down by it

last vacation day —
we give ourselves permission
to miss our own bed

retirement countdown —
loosening my grip on
the days of the week

first day of summer —
the two-hour nap we drop in
doesn't even splash

summer solstice —
we unroll the day's long spool
as a bedtime tale

woke up this morning
with my mind set on freedom —
songs ringing like bells

socked in by a fog —
I can feel my mind searching
for the old landmarks

plovers taking turns 
on their shallow sandy nests —
no chicks yet this year

three killdeer chicks
scurrying across gravel —
proud parents look on

after last year's drought
a spring of lingering clouds —
puddles in puddles

unable to march
our elders sent handmade signs
for us to carry

backyard concert —
fireflies reappear
as we look away

#NoKings Day —
thinking only as far ahead
as the next protest

field-picked strawberries
with the sun's loving kiss
still warm in my hand

far from each other
we make a plan to enjoy
the full moon together

stuck under these clouds 
like a clutch of eggs
under a mother wren

more choreopsis
joins the yarrow and tickseed —
just keep walking, deer

stock-still robins
staring down into the grass
conjuring worms

lingering haze
obscuring our memory
of crisp blue skies

its tentative hop
serving as our first clue —
fledgling robin

our only child
regales us with his sweet dreams
of fatherhood

watching the garden
for the particular green of 
brand new zinnias

seeking and finding —
a catbird flings his best song
out for a loop

reading the labels —
we scour the nursery for
plants the deer won't eat

sapsucker season —
a line of small perfect holes
ringing the maple

returned from school —
we push new habits aside
to make room for him

as I drift asleep
I call old friends to mind  —
the rain falls softly

low iron levels —
my ineligibility
feeling like failure

graduation day —
stadium pigeons look on 
as mortarboards fly

peony blossoms —
we try to convince the deer
of sweeter blooms elsewhere

walking home at dusk —
acrobatic chimney swifts 
where the sky begins

just after dawn
the deer slip by to check
on our offerings

shrieks and cannonballs

displacing circling pool leaves —

summer draws near

driving into the sun 
steering from memory
to where the road was

we walk in the rain
watching the flowers
turn their faces up

morning half moon —
I neglect to notice if 
waxing or waning

nesting season —
as I walk, small blue half domes
evidence of hatching

another Sunday —
the flight of zinnia seeds
from my open hand

coordinated poison —
I wait for news of my friends'
latest chemo rounds

early morning fog —
our sense of the road ahead
reduced to guesswork

each iris stalk
racing in its quiet way
to be first to bloom

humming along
to a song I don't know yet —
carried by the chords

catbirds at dusk
tuning up their instruments
deep in the bamboo

hazy flower moon — 
we find our way forward
through remembered light

hand-scattering 

zinnia seeds like a prayer

over rain damp earth

in the pink of it
a tiny hitchhiking ant — 
peony bouquet

tiny house sparrows
gauging the width of our vents
by slipping inside

silently jostling
for the best view of the sun —
azalea blossoms

a figure in black
walking at the edge of the road  —
dotting a solid line

highway hotel —
all night the sound of trucks
braking down the hill

the level of fear
rising like groundwater  —
trapped with no runway

describing branches
so we can help each other
find the green heron

heavy-hearted —
we pull out the old sorrows
to compare notes

spring peepers
insistently reminding —
we needed this rain

Mayday, mayday —
learning what we would do
in an emergency

overnight —
azalea blossom count
simply exploding

song sparrows
assessing nest locations —
does anywhere feel safe?

arguing over
where the acorns got stashed —
squirrels in spring

yellow jasmine —  
collecting the sunshine
and holding it close

chimney swifts are back —
here I am looking too close
or too far away

wildfire smoke
working its way up the coast  —
throats slowly closing

every move 
traceable in this world 
dusted with pollen

shake out some sunshine
and tuck all the turtlenecks 
back in the drawer

long days without rain —
drivers crowd the northbound lanes
chased by the fire

the pure joy that comes
with new father energy —
should have been Mahmoud's

late-night baking —
the scent of banana bread
tucked under the eaves

coaxing the drivers
into honking their horns —
protest persuasion

warm spring breezes
and the last songs of the day —
leave the door open

magnolia blossoms
ready for inspection
by the mourning doves

justice for Kilmar —
what can anyone say to
his children tonight?